


Clothed Myself in Your Glory

by bulfinch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Caution! Extreme Softness!, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Kids (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 02:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28930755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulfinch/pseuds/bulfinch
Summary: “You know, my beloved,” crooned the angel, dropping a kiss against the curve of his neck, again against a boney shoulder, “you can huff and puff all you like, but I will insist on telling you once again that you are, in point of fact, quite a lovely person.” Crowley hummed a retort, teeth clenching around something bitter, something too close to an old, old hurt.Or Crowley saves a child from drowning in the lake at St James’s Park. It brings up some Feelings.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 91





	Clothed Myself in Your Glory

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is rated T mostly for caution’s sake…Aside from dangerous levels of softness (it’s a choking hazard, really), there’s some nudity I suppose, but this is ultimately disappointingly free of smut.

A demon was huddled dourly in a sitting room, black-socked feet drawn up on the sofa, toes curling over the edge. 

Crowley was flitting mindlessly through channels, trying and failing to find something that would take his mind off things. He settled, begrudgingly, into a rerun of _Hetty Wainthropp Investigates._ It didn’t help.

As he sunk further into the plush, dark sofa, shivering under the thick woollen throw Aziraphale had swaddled him in, he felt an odd kind of wretchedness. A misery he firmly decided was born of the cold that had settled into his ancient bones, nothing more. 

Earlier, a child had gone over into the water at St James’s Park. He had run ahead to see the ducks, his mother still too far behind to stop him, and had leaned in between the bars too eagerly. 

Before Crowley could think, he was on his feet, Aziraphale close on his heels. Crowley hurdled over the barrier and into the murky lake. A shock of cold. That familiar green-brown smell of still, fresh water. And he was hoisting the boy up and into Aziraphale’s waiting arms. 

While Aziraphale was busy returning the child to his frantic mother, Crowley managed to slither, awkward and sputtering, up onto dry ground, the chill in the November air shooting like an electric current into the marrow of him. 

Soon enough the angel was by his side, hand under his elbow, sturdy arm around his waist. 

“Crowley! Crowley! Are you alright?” 

“F-fine.” 

“Are you sure? Do you need-“

“I’m fine, I said.” 

And he was pulling away with a jerk from the warmth of Aziraphale’s worry. He regretted it instantly. But too full of pride to retract, he stalked up the path, chased by the woman’s distracted calls of “Wait-I-… _Thank you!_ ”

A shivering, sopping shadow, trying to hold himself rigid under a grey sky. 

By the time they reached the Bentley, Crowley had miracled himself dry. But the smell of the water and the chill that had planted itself firmly under his skin remained. 

The ride back was mostly silent—only clipped responses from the demon. 

Crowley could not stand the way Aziraphale was looking at him. Like he was the world. 

A cleared throat brought Crowley back to their sitting room. Aziraphale was at the doorway, in his shirtsleeves, rolled up to the elbow. Crowley loved that sight. It was such a warm, intimate thing. Like rumpled hair on sleepy Sunday mornings. It ached. 

“I’ve drawn you a bath.” 

The demon was up on his feet and making a beeline for the bathroom without a second thought.   
Leaving a trail of clothing (and blanket) down the short hall, Crowley soon found himself settled in—slouched into the hot water, spindly knees poking out into the cold air. 

Crowley groaned as the heat worked its way into his muscles, tingled deliciously up his spine. He tried very hard to focus on enjoying it. Tried to lock out the sharp, ugly thought that was intent on running amok through his conscious mind. 

Before long, Aziraphale was back, little wooden step stool in hand. He perched himself at the end of the old tub, behind Crowley. 

“Tip your head back for me, dear.” 

Aziraphale set about washing his hair. Firm and reverent fingers moving carefully through soap-slicked locks. Crowley could not help but sigh into it, melt a little at his touch. To relax into the still-new familiarity of this affection. 

Until he remembered himself. And, unguarded as he was, that Thought slipped in without waiting for an invitation: 

Pulling a child out of a pond did not change what he was. It did not undo his nature. He should not get a hero’s thanks. He should not get to have someone wash his hair and tend to him like something precious and wanted and sacred. He could pretend and parade around in this domestic bliss all he wanted. Picnics and breakfasts and held hands. But facts were facts. No one was meant to be looking at him _like that_. 

Aziraphale, though, was steady in his love. Insistent. 

He rinsed Crowley’s hair, letting the water do its job longer than than was needed, just to see Crowley enjoy the feel of it. And when Crowley was sitting up again, Aziraphale worked at the muscles in his back, easing out any lingering tension the chill had introduced there. 

It was wonderful, but it made Crowley feel fragile, like he was made of glass and vapour. He tried his best not to let on, not to let Aziraphale see.

It was quiet for a while, nothing but the soft sound of sloshing water and the muteness of Crowley’s shaky pride.   
Breaking the quiet like relief: “You know, my beloved,” crooned the angel, dropping a kiss against the curve of his neck, again against a boney shoulder, “you can huff and puff all you like, but I will insist on telling you once again that you are, in point of fact, quite a lovely person.” Crowley hummed a retort, teeth clenching around something bitter, something too close to an old, old hurt. He felt the corner of his mouth dip despite himself, quiver in defiance of all his feeble nonchalance. 

Crowley suddenly wished he weren’t naked. Wished his sunglasses had not fallen in with the ducks.  1

Aziraphale tipped Crowley’s chin towards him, gently, eyes so fond that he wanted to look away, to hide from them as if they were an accusation. And this time there was no teasing in the angel’s voice, only a simple truth stated plainly. “I think yours is the best heart in all the world.” 

And suddenly Crowley was taking a sharp, shaking breath in, and hot tears were brimming over tired eyes. 

Aziraphale was on his knees, then, wrapping his arms around Crowley, nuzzling into his neck. 

“Oh, my Crowley,” murmured against wet skin. 

Later, with Aziraphale’s even breath in the dark of their bedroom, and a warmth coiled contently in his chest, Crowley pondered the whole debacle. With an odd, easy certainty, he came to a conclusion. 

Despite any obligatory heavenly rhetoric he may have flung about in the past, Aziraphale _believed_ in Crowley. Believed in his goodness, his worthiness. Crowley was not sure he could believe in it himself. Not sure he could take that leap for his own sake. Not yet, anyway. But, it seemed, he had Fallen only to find himself standing on the firm ground of Aziraphale’s love.

  1. They would find their way back. They always did. In his inside jacket pocket the next morning, not a scratch on them. 




End file.
